


in the way

by M0stlyVoid



Series: Kinktober 2020 [17]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consensual Kink, Cuckolding, Endgame Drarry, M/M, Minister for Magic Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27068770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: As Minister for Magic, Harry frequently works long, punishing hours. His boyfriend makes itveryclear he doesn’t appreciate the neglect.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinktober 2020 [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948741
Comments: 16
Kudos: 246





	in the way

**Author's Note:**

> the october 17 prompt for kinktober 2020 is— _cuckolding_.

Harry sighs as he reviews his schedule for next week one last time. It’s almost eight on a Friday night, and other than the Auror on night shift that had been sent to stand guard outside his office (it doesn’t matter how often he insists that he’s _more_ than capable of protecting himself—after all, he’s _Harry Potter,_ he didn’t forget all his Auror training after the election—they still send one of the overnights to sit at his secretary’s desk when he’s working off hours) his entire floor is empty. All he can hear are the quiet cleaning spells moving across the floor, picking up trash and tidying as they go.

Groaning, he stretches and pops his back, pushing the timetable aside and glancing at the _Daily Prophet_ he’d tucked under his paperwork this morning. He only had time to glance at the headlines over his tea before he was rushed into a last-minute confab with the head of Accounting, but now he smooths the pages out and studies the photo.

 **MINISTER POTTER AND HIS BOYFRIEND SPOTTED OUT IN HOGSMEADE** , the headline reads, with **Is Harry Potter _really_ moving in with Draco Malfoy?** directly underneath.

It’s a good picture, Harry thinks absently, thumb brushing over Draco’s face as they smile at each other in the photo. As usual, the _Prophet_ has no clue what they’re on about—he and Draco have lived together for two years now, since about a year after they started dating, and they certainly weren’t in Hogsmeade looking at properties; it does make life easier sometimes, though, when the press has absolutely no idea what’s going on.

He glances at the clock again; it’s half-eight now, and he’s not sure he can delay much longer. Standing, he tidies his desk half-heartedly, slipping the red ribbon that had been tied around Draco’s lunchtime note into his pocket. He runs his finger over the silk for a minute, smiling to himself.

Harry had laughed at first, when Draco suggested using a colour code with ribbons; he appreciates it now, though, and keeps the ribbons in his desk at home. It’s nice to have something to look forward to.

Straightening, he strides out of the office, nodding at the Auror, who scrambles to her feet to salute. “At ease, Auror,” he says warmly. “I’m off for the night—you can head back to the bullpen.”

“Yes, Minister Potter,” the Auror—one of the new trainees just promoted up, Harry thinks, she looks very young and vaguely starstruck—says breathlessly. “Do you. Er. Sir, shall I escort you to the Floos?” She flushes red, looking mortified.

Harry puts on the most comforting smile he can. “No, that’s fine. You’re dismissed. Let Creevey know I sent you down myself if he says anything, yeah?” Dennis Creevey is a good Deputy Head Auror, and the only one with any seniority who’s consistently willing to take the night shift, but privately Harry thinks he’s too hard on the rookies, especially if he decides that Harry’s been slighted in some fashion.

“Yes sir,” she says, but doesn’t seem willing to leave until he does, so Harry waves awkwardly and hastens to the lifts.

It’s been eighteen months, and he’s still not used to the formality, or the sucking up, or the near-reverence he now gets as Minister for Magic. It’s even worse than going out in Diagon had been immediately post-War, which Harry never thought was possible; at least then his friends and classmates had treated him like they always did. Now, though, everyone but his family has a level of deference when they talk to him, even some of his old friends, even people he worked and fought with for years when he was still out in the field, and sometimes he can’t stand it, misses the easy camaraderie that comes with being down in the bullpen, with fighting and freezing on long stakeouts and bitching over paperwork and reports together.

Harry knows what he’s doing is important. Wizarding Britain had begun to falter, in recent years; old prejudices creeping back in from their dark corners, corruption snaking its fingers into the heart of the Ministry. Kingsley had been doing his best, but the Department Heads were gaining too much power again, and Harry had watched in impotent horror as more and more extreme bills were passed, dressed up to _preserve Wizarding culture_ but in actuality used to curtail Magical Beings rights, and they were worded vaguely enough to allow them to be applied to Muggleborns if someone were so inclined.

It had been Hermione’s idea; Harry’s name never lost its cachet, even if the furor around him had died down in recent years, and she reasoned that if he ran, not only would he win by a landslide, but nobody would dare go behind his back or try to sneak in policies he didn’t care for for fear of losing their veneer of respectability. Ron and Draco had agreed, and two years after that conversation Harry still wakes up a little bewildered that he’s actually _the_ Minister for Magic.

It’s surreal. It’s a privilege. It’s exhausting.

Harry’s hours are long, and filled with exactly the kind of fake cordiality he’s always hated, but even he can’t argue that the results are worth it, even if he barely sees his boyfriend during the week any more.

Draco doesn’t mind, though. He understands that Harry doesn’t stay late on purpose, and he’s more than happy to play second fiddle while quietly supplying the DMLE with all their healing and combat potions (Harry never said he was perfect, and anyway, Draco’s potions really _are_ better than any others on the market; nepotism isn’t _always_ bad) and keeping their home in order. He makes sure Harry has coffee when he wakes up, and sends him lunch almost every day, and keeps Harry’s favorite gin on hand for when the days have been especially long.

Harry’s not quite sure exactly how they fell into this particular arrangement, but as he exits the Floo into his sitting room and notes the extra pair of shoes lined up next to the fireplace, he once again finds himself grateful that the paps who hound his every step still haven’t figured out any details of his relationship; he’s not sure he could live _this_ down.

Draco hadn’t said anything, would never have brought it up, but Harry could tell that his absence was wearing, and he would have done almost anything to fix it. Happily, a few discussions over probably too much wine revealed a particular _scenario_ they both found hot (Harry still thinks of the sex they’d had after with a shiver), and so their arrangement was born.

They’ve only done it a few times in the last year. Harry always is the one to suggest it, when he knows it’s going to be a particularly gruelling week and he’s got a particular itch. Draco _still_ won’t initiate, even though he knows full well that Harry enjoys it just as much as he does, and secretly, Harry’s glad for that—he likes having that measure of control, likes getting to pick when someone else is going to fuck his boyfriend, and Draco probably knows that.

The red ribbon, since Harry didn’t reply and say he changed his mind, means Blaise Zabini will be in their bed when Harry gets upstairs. He’s half-hard just thinking about it.

He takes time arranging his shoes neatly and hanging his formal robes, then pours himself a drink and takes a steadying sip before he makes for the stairs. His pulse is thrumming with each step, and when he’s halfway up he starts hearing sounds—laughter, low voices, and quick, high gasps.

He pushes their bedroom door open, and Draco looks up to meet his eyes from his spot on the ground, where he’s kneeling in front of Blaise. He’s got Blaise’s cock in his mouth, and Blaise is leaning back on the bed, propped up on his elbows, staring down as Draco takes him deep.

“Nice of you to show up, _Minister,_ ” Blaise says lazily, but his quickened breath gives away how good Draco’s mouth on him must feel. Harry takes a sip of his drink and rubs himself over his trousers—he knows exactly what that mouth feels like. “Hope you don’t mind, but I picked your boyfriend up at the pub. He sure was eager to bring me back here—aren’t you taking care of him? How can you be expected to run Wizarding Britain if you don’t even have your own house in order?”

Harry hisses through his teeth and rips his fly open, pushing his trousers and pants down and kicking them off as he makes his way to the chair in the corner. Sometimes he tries to play along, to act shocked and outraged over what he’s ‘stumbled in on’, but he’s too keyed up today to make it even remotely believable.

Draco tracks his progress and must realize this, because he pulls off Blaise’s cock with a pop and crawls onto the bed, lying on his stomach facing the corner closest to Harry’s chair. “My loving boyfriend, home at last,” he says, mean and sharp, and Harry’s heart pounds as Draco’s eyes glitter meanly at him. “I almost forgot what you look like. Luckily, Blaise offered to _comfort_ me in my loneliness. Merlin, I’m not sure I’d have even noticed if you— _ahhhhh_ —if you came home tonight at all.” His voice gets breathy as Blaise crouches over him, parts his cheeks, and licks at his hole.

Harry swears, downing the rest of his drink and Vanishing the glass. He can’t look away; Draco’s getting flushed, his hair a mess and his body twisting as he cries out and pushes back against Blaise’s clever tongue and fingers, and Harry has the perfect view.

“Oh god,” Draco gasps, as Blaise sneaks a finger in along with his tongue. “Fuck, Blaise, you— _God, stop, I’m going to come_. See how little it takes from him, to get me on the edge? He’s better at pleasing me than you _ever_ have been, and you’ve had, what, three years of practice?”

Harry doesn’t reply, transfixed as Blaise pulls his head back and inserts another finger, winking at Harry over Draco’s head. He doesn’t quite get this game, but he’s _more_ than happy to play along whenever Draco calls to arrange this, and Harry appreciates the occasional little reassurances that it isn’t _real,_ what they’re saying to him. Harry whispers under his breath and starts stroking himself with his slickened hand, matching the time of his strokes to Blaise’s thrusts in and out of Draco’s arse.

As he wanks, he looks over Draco’s body. There’s a bruise forming on his collarbone, and the meaty part of his arse is red; Blaise has been here for a while. Harry’s honestly surprised Draco still needs to be prepped, that they haven’t already fucked while waiting for him to get home.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” Draco taunts as best he can while Blaise presses on his prostate. “You’re not even going to _try_ to defend it, are you; you know that he’s better than you ever will be. Fuck, what kind of man can’t even satisfy his partner?” Harry moans and his thighs tense as pressure starts to build in his lower back; he can’t come yet.

Blaise bends down and bites one of Draco’s arse cheeks. “Up, gorgeous,” he purrs, grabbing Draco’s hips and hauling him up to his knees. Draco’s still got his head on the bed, and the arch in his back almost gets Harry moving, but he grits his teeth and stays where he is. “I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.”

Draco _howls_ when Blaise pushes into him, biting at the duvet cover and pounding a fist on the mattress. “Oh _god,_ ” he groans, wiggling back onto Blaise’s cock until he’s fully seated. “God, _fuck,_ that’s so good. That’s _so good. Fuck me already,_ Blaise.”

Harry feels sweat beading at his hairline as Blaise sets a fast, deep rhythm. His eyes are blurring with tears, that particular blend of lust and jealousy and _anger_ that this little setup always evokes roaring through his body, and his hand speeds up over his own cock as Blaise reaches around to grasp Draco’s.

Blaise is whispering in Draco’s ear now, eyes fixed on Harry, and Harry can’t hear what he’s saying but he can guess, and the sly gleam in Blaise’s gaze as he presses a kiss behind Draco’s ear, gentle, _proprietary,_ is enough to send Harry over the edge; he comes with a shout, all over his fist and chest, then sags back into the chair to watch the rest.

“Can’t— _fuck, harder_ — can’t even last for any decent amount of time,” Draco pants out, voice wavering. “It’s no wonder I have to _oooooooh_ fucking god, fuck, _fuck_! Harry!” His back arches even further as he comes into Blaise’s hand.

Harry watches as Blaise’s thrusts stutter; he knows exactly what that incredible squeeze as Draco comes feels like, is intimately familiar with how impossible it is to hold one’s own orgasm off after that—and sure enough, Blaise collapses forward onto Draco’s back as he comes with a loud whine.

They’re all quiet for a while, the only sound their heaving breaths, but eventually Blaise pulls out and rolls onto the bed with a groan. “Cheers,” he sighs, heaving himself to his feet and Summoning his wand, then his clothes. “Draco, will you be at Pansy’s for brunch tomorrow, or shall I make your excuses?”

Draco makes an indistinct sound into the duvet, still breathing heavily. Harry chuckles tiredly, standing and making his way to the bed, skimming his hand over Draco’s back, which is gleaming with sweat. “I don’t think he’ll be making it tomorrow.”

Blaise laughs too, hopping as he pulls on his last sock. “Fair enough, I’ll come up with something. You’ll owe me, though; Pansy’s getting suspicious that I always know your plans, she’s going to start asking uncomfortable questions soon.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Blaise,” Harry says lightly, flapping his hand toward the door.

“Yes, Minister,” Blaise simpers, cackling as he leaps out the door, barely dodging Harry’s stinging spell.

Harry casts cleaning spells and raises the temperature in the bedroom, then lies down next to Draco and rubs slowly up and down his spine.

“H’rry?” Draco asks into the blanket. Harry rolls onto his side and kisses Draco’s shoulder blade in response, and Draco curls closer to him, seeking Harry’s warmth.

“How was your day?” Harry asks quietly, pulling Draco’s body flush with his own. They both need the physical comfort and closeness, after Blaise leaves.

“Fine,” Draco sighs into his neck. “Boring, really. I’m way ahead on potion orders for the Ministry, and with NEWTs coming up the seventh years are brewing everything the infirmary at Hogwarts needs, so I don’t have anything for Pomfrey I need to do. Yours?”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “Horrid. Accounting accosted me before I’d barely walked in the door, and I was flat-out from there. Thanks for lunch, by the way.”

Draco smiles at him, eyes half-closed. “Minister Harry _Potter,_ ” he says in a little sing-song, wiggling to get even closer. “So _important_ and _in demand_.”

“I love you,” Harry says around the sudden lump in his throat, tightening his arms and hiding his head against Draco’s shoulder so he can’t see that Harry’s tearing up. “I love you so much.”

Draco strokes his hair gently. “I love you too, Harry. Are you okay? Was that not…” 

“I’m fine,” Harry reassures hastily. “It was...it was perfect. You’re perfect. I just. I love you so much, and…” He trails off and shrugs helplessly.

Draco kisses the top of his head. “I know. I know. I love you so much, too.”

Harry Summons another blanket from the closet and settles it over them, then lowers the lights, and they drift to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> the tumblr post for this fic is [here](https://bonesliketambourines.tumblr.com/post/632272301576077313/kinktober-day-17-in-the-way).


End file.
